Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Craft (04/23/26)
-
TITLE: The Work of His Hands | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jack Taylor
04/28/26 -
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES
I loved the way the gopher wood rose to life under my hands. Craftsmen work from passion and pleasure. Their eyes see the unseen beauty. Their hands shape what their minds have drafted. Their sweat draws joy from souls on a quest.
The long beams rose, measured, and piled, ready to fit into place against the ribs of the craft. Spectators scurried around us like ants at a picnic, finding a piece of bread.
“What are you building?” an old man asked, shaking dust from his sandals. His curiosity was genuine, his furrowed brows at a loss for his own answers. My father ran his hands along the grain of the timber, not even turning. “A vessel to carry life.”
“Across the river?” the man persisted.
“Across the world,” my father said.
“My mother could do a better job,” mocked a voice.
We worked from dawn until the stars showed up to dance. We cut, we lifted, we set a plank where it belonged, and then we pegged it in place with a dowel. Everything straight. Everything solid. Everything firm.
The skeleton of our craft rose from the dust like the ribs of a carcass abandoned in the desert. Father was straight to the point. “Change your ways. You will all give an account.”
A group of wily veterans sat like vultures in circles, pondering his words. Jaws clenched. Lips thinned. Disbelief fanned into flame as they shook their heads. Orienting their tongues to devour the feeble efforts on display.
“Shem, measure that again,” father said, as my mind pondered taking a break. “Get your brothers to lift it in place. There are enough dowels now for another layer.”
I wrapped the rag around my head a little tighter. “Too late!” a voice called. “The sun has already addled your head.”
I felt the heat rise in my chest. My hands tightened on the adze I held. Father kept working, driving another peg into place. “Measure twice. Cut once. Close the gap. Make it true.” His words echoed relentlessly inside.
A child threw a stone near my foot. “Make it taller,” he shouted. “The sky is far away. You’re building a bridge to nowhere.”
Laughter, mockery, ridicule, slander. There was no point talking about it over dinner. Father was obsessed with a vision he’d had. We were craftsmen and a craft we would build.
Three days out of five, I wanted to lay down my hammer and hide away in the shade somewhere. Two days out of three, I wanted to ignore the bucket of pitch. But no, a craftsman is dedicated to finishing what he starts. Even when his shoulders ache, his hands split at the knuckles, and the fire of the sun mistakes him for a burnt offering.
“Abba, do you ever doubt?” I asked.
He didn’t even look up. He smoothed a seam, pressed pitch into the gap, and nodded his satisfaction. “When a craftsman doubts his hands, he trains them. He checks the line, tests the join, listens to the wood, but he never doubts the design given to him.”
His words were heavier than the beams we carried. Heavier than the mockery, the slander, the whispers, and the accusations.
“He’s lost his mind,” another voice shouted. “Shem, save yourself and your family. You’ll burn up in this desert, wasting your life.”
So many times I had stepped away from the work, ready to confront the agitators.
“Shem.” A whisper in my ear was all it took. I pivoted away from the sneering face, unclenching my fist. I sure hoped Yahweh knew what he was doing.
Many times, we worked into the cool of the evening, burning torches to see, as we sealed another section of the hull. The seal was set, the wood true, straight, and joined tight to hold against whatever would come.
The crowds grew. Questions changed to disbelief, then to mockery, then to slander. We continued to cut, lift, set, and seal. Cut, lift, set, seal. Cut, lift, set, seal.
Each beam laid with care to protect life against an unseen future became a witness against the laughter. The ark rose higher, casting a long shadow across the dry ground, providing shade and hope that life would overcome.
My father, the craftsman, had built his faith into a form. There was obedience crying out from every joint and timber sealed in place.
Wait? A drop of water?
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.
The dialogue was well done and made the story seem realistic.